


A Collection of Poems

by Hitoshi__Shinso



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Free Verse, Just dumping some random poetry here in case anyone finds it interesting, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27973545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hitoshi__Shinso/pseuds/Hitoshi__Shinso
Summary: Some poems that I've written at different stages in my life where I felt the need to vent my feelings into vague writing. Maybe someone will enjoy reading them?
Kudos: 1





	1. The Box

It starts with a box.   
An unremarkable old, wooden trunk with tarnished metal clasps and a vague unpleasant smell.   
The kind you would find in your grandmother's attic under a blanket of dust and cobwebs, although this particular box is too heavy to keep in an attic without risking a hole in the ceiling.   
The key to the frozen lock has been lost to time.   
That is all for the better, however, as the contents of the box are hardly important or worth interest.  
I'd rather not recount what's stored inside.   
I'd rather not recall what's stored inside.   
I've had the box for quite some time now.  
The ache I feel as I drag this box through this forest is almost unbearable.  
The box is small and insignificant here.   
It's wooden frame is outdone by the grand wooden pillars surrounding me.  
I am small and insignificant here.   
Yet my actions produce the only sound.  
Each strained step on the forest floor produces another snap.  
Broken bones.   
The sound of the leaden box traveling through the dead leaves produces an obnoxious crackling.  
Broken hearts.   
I stop when I can see nothing but trees in all directions.  
This place is unremarkable, like the box.   
There are no identifiable features or landmarks.   
Forgettable.   
The box settles on the ground with a deafening thud.   
Broken.   
I did not bring a shovel with me, but I have one now.  
The blade cleaves the smooth, flawless dirt as I begin to dig.  
I know this is a mistake.   
I've already made too many.   
I have to do this.  
After laboring for far too long, I am exhausted.   
I look down into the grave I've dug.  
I consider stepping in.   
This is for the box.   
Lowering the weight of the box into the hole almost drags me down regardless.   
The shovel is gone.  
I look at the dirt under my fingernails and wonder if it was ever there.  
My filthy hands cover the box with dirt.   
I brush the leaves over the disturbed earth.   
After I've walked away, I can't tell where it was that I dug.   
The box is gone.  
Do I feel better?

Now I have nothing to store my things.   
I get another box.   
The metal detailing is shiny.   
The key burns cold in my hand.   
This is still unremarkable.  
It ends with a box.


	2. No Box

You find yourself in that place again. The trunks of identical trees stretch for miles in every direction, repeated assets in this forgettable, insignificant world. Their bare branches grow above you as grotesque, gnarled hands with too many fingers. Usually, this place is silent, but now the branches crackle as their bones twist and snap. The sounds drown out your frantic footsteps that cruelly trample the dead leaves further into the dirt. 

There wasn't time to find a box. Instead you carry the warm offal in your cupped hands, sticky blood trickling through the space between your fingers, running down your wrists, pooling in your fingernails. It's filthy. It should be disgusting, but the sensations inspire a sick satisfaction in you instead. You've always been sick, haven't you? 

No, don't panic. It's only your blood. 

It's raining, it never rains here, but this time it pours from the sky, bleeding from wounds shaped like key holes, dripping down the mutilated branches, but always avoiding you. The rain understands what no one else seems to, so you will stay dry. The burden will not be washed from your hands.

You run faster.

Your foot catches on the handle of a shovel. It was left here some time ago when you broke it. After all, you break everything. You fall hard into the mud, catching yourself on your occupied hands, squeezing the muddied viscera through your fingers until it bursts. A new flood of crimson spreads across your hands and mixes with the dirt as you begin to dig at a frantic pace. It's filthy. 

Hide this away, keep it out of site, dig another grave. 

Your fingers collide with something already buried, pain sparking through your hand. The rain is getting heavier, the soil eroding to reveal the box that your hand had struck.

There are already too many boxes buried here.

It hurts.

The case that was uncovered is a plain metal lockbox, unremarkable as ever. The raindrops turn black as they hit its lid, removing the color from the metal and leaving a reflective surface.

You stare at your reflection. Scared, boring, useless. 

You are worthless. 

You are nothing.

Furiously snatching the remains of the tragedy you intend to bury, your aching fingers struggle for a moment to open the box. Your knees begin to sink into the mud. Time has decayed the small lock, so the box opens with a snap. You set the offal into the box, and you sink into the ground. No one needs you. The world falls away beneath you. You are buried.


	3. Motivation

I have a lot of emotions today that I can’t explain  
But I should hurry and try it before my feelings wane  
I should write about it.

The moon looks beautiful tonight, reflecting off the snow  
It gives the darkened world a blue and peaceful glow  
I should write about it.

I read something inspiring today that almost made me cry  
I really could make art like that, if only I would try  
I should write about it.

Today I’m feeling happy, like my heart is full of love  
But I stay sheltered from the blue sky, and the shining sun above  
I should write about it.

Today I envy the masochist, who must have much more fun  
When the world around them falls apart, and they’re too weak to run  
I should write about it.

The world around me is dark and cold, but my sheets fit like a glove  
I think I’m better off in bed than doing what I love  
I should write about it.  
But I won’t.


End file.
